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Cultural Migration in Autobiography Grundtvig Partnerships 2009-2011

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.

e-mail: kszia@komesnet.com.pl http://cma.internetdsl.pl

111

Olga

Daniele Pantaleoni

One of the rooms on the ground floor of the Hostel G4 was well-known as Madam Olga’s shelter, the superintendent. The room of the authority was lit by a lamp that shed dim reddish light that made you think you stepped into an absurd badly decorated Chinese restaurant. The room consisted of: a desk, a couch, a fridge, a colored TV set, a heater, a mirror. Your attention would automatically be drawn to the right, to the desk that was sheltering a pile of paperwork, some framed photos, a cup with hot instant coffee, and an ashtray absolutely full of Snagov cigarette butts. Beyond this smoke releasing curtain, a human figure was looming: well-built, curly haired, full-bosomed, with finished teeth like the cigarette hanging between her lips: Madam Olga The Superintendent or The Boss, for short!

Her look resembled closely the reputation she was enjoying between the residents of the Hostel G4. These people thought of her as a sort of Ugly Hag of the Campus, a highly-corrupted person with the habits of a Communist Security general that ruled over the destiny of many students and young teachers who were searching for campus accommodation. My future as a resident in the hostel did not depend on Olga, so I could have a less serious relationship with her. When I would enter her office to pay the rent or to get a phone call, I felt as if I was submerging in a film by Kusturica and, as a result, I would start playing my part. Half joking, I would ask for a rent discount or, to make her laugh, I would mispronounce Romanian words and compliment her on the high quality of her coffee. At times Olga would ask me whether I could buy strange things for her from Italy: perfumes, baby nappies for her grandson, cosmetics. I would always tell her that I was only going to Italy in 3-4 month’s time and how was her grandson going to do without nappies for so long? Or meanwhile, she could be invited somewhere to a party, and how could she go without wearing makeup? Olga would comment on my naughty remarks and then would add: “You listen to this wicked Italian!”

I ran into Olga in a supermarket several years after that. By then I already left G4. “Daniele, how are you?” she asked me smiling. I could not see in her mouth the black stomatological remains of the old days, but some shining white false teeth, the product of a long and exhausting career as a Boss.